


A Negligible Accident

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Preseries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock was high when his mother died.</i>
</p>
<p>Betaed by SmallHobbit, thank you so much! Title from Death Is Nothing At All by Canon Henry Scott-Holland, as suggested by Trillsabells.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Negligible Accident

Sherlock was high when his mother died, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if he hadn’t been. Being sober wouldn’t have stopped the blockage in her coronary artery, or kept blood flowing through her heart. Mycroft’s deep disappointment when he called to inform Sherlock that they were now orphans and realised that he was riding a rather stupendous cocaine high was completely unnecessary.

Sherlock hung the phone up without bothering to end the conversation, threw it across the room, and wondered if another hit would be one too many. There was only one way to find out, and the thrill of the risk was almost as potent as the drug running through his veins.

****

The next morning, he awoke to find Mycroft standing over the sofa he was sleeping on, looking disgusted. Sherlock just groaned and rolled over to hide from him.

“Is this really any way to behave?” asked Mycroft in a scathing voice. “Mummy would be appalled.”

“Then isn’t it lucky that she’s not here to see it?” said Sherlock, and then felt a cold stab of emotion that mirrored Mycroft’s indrawn breath. Saying something as callous as that would definitely have appalled Mummy. She’d spent many, many years teaching Sherlock not to say such things without thinking, although he rarely applied her lessons these days.

“Get up, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Stop wallowing in your own depravity. It’s bad enough that she spent the last two years broken-hearted over your choices without you treating her memory in this manner less than twelve hours after she passed away.”

Sherlock’s anger wiped away any regret he had over his words. “Piss off, Mycroft. Why are you even here? I thought you declared this place not fit to contain your august presence?”

Mycroft glanced around the bedsit with a sneer. “It’s not fit for anyone’s presence,” he said. “Really, how can you live like this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat up so that he could give every sign of enjoying his position on what was possibly the least comfortable sofa he had ever experienced, making sure to rub his hair into the most questionable of the many stains that covered it. “I infinitely prefer it to your empty mausoleum,” he said, “which you should feel free to return to at any time.”

“Would that I could,” said Mycroft. “Unfortunately, there are things that must be organised. The funeral-”

“Oh, you can deal with all that,” interrupted Sherlock. “You love that sort of thing.”

“I cannot say that I ‘love’ organising my mother’s funeral, no,” said Mycroft. “However, I don’t expect any help from you. It’s been years since you were capable of doing anything useful.”

“I invented a new system for blood splatter analysis last week,” said Sherlock.

“Wonderful. Such a shame no-one with the authority to recommend it for use will ever see it, because none of them would ever stoop to taking the advice of an obvious junky.”

Sherlock scowled. “Those idiots wouldn’t listen anyway. No-one in crime detection is the least bit interested in hearing anything new, or clever.”

Mycroft’s sigh could have powered a schooner across the Atlantic. “That is because you attempt to persuade them that you are worth listening to by being high, insulting them, losing your temper, and then storming off. If you took the time to use at least some charm, perhaps even allow them to get a word in edgeways-”

“Dull,” announced Sherlock. He was beginning to feel the itch under his skin that meant it was time for another hit, but he needed Mycroft to leave first.

“And spending your time in a place such as this is infinitely more interesting?” asked Mycroft, then gave a little shake of his head. “At any rate, I did not mean to continue this argument today. I merely came over to make certain that you had understood the import of the news, and inform you that you will need to be at the Kensal Green Crematorium by 10 am on a week Monday. Do you have that?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “What day is it today?”

“Wednesday,” said Mycroft. “And it is the 14th of September. The funeral will be on the 25th. Have you got that?”

“September already?” asked Sherlock. “I thought it was still July.” He glanced out of the window at the grey skies. “I’d say that explains the weather, but it was probably like this in July too.”

“As a matter of fact, the 14th of July was one of the hottest days of the year,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock, please concentrate. I realise you are probably focused on the drug you will inject as soon as I have left, but I need to know that I can rely on you to appear at the correct time and place, sober and properly presented.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not a child, Mycroft.”

“And yet you persist in acting like one,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock. I have rather a lot of things to manage right now.” There was actually a note of strain in his voice and Sherlock squinted at him, trying to work out if that was an act or real. “Please tell me that wrangling you does not have to be one of them.”

His frustration was real, at least. Sherlock sighed and then nodded. “10 am, Kensal Green, 25th,” he repeated. “I have it. Now, go away and hassle someone else.”

Mycroft looked relieved and gave him no more than a nod of farewell before he strode for the door. He paused in the door frame, however, and looked back for a moment. “We are the only family either of us have left now,” he said. “Sherlock, I hope you are aware that if you ever decide to seek the help you so obviously need, I will be more than willing to provide it.”

Sherlock waved that away, his eyes already seeking for a clean needle in the clutter that covered his coffee table. “Not interested in rehab, thank you,” he said. “You can leave now.”

Mycroft stayed a moment longer, as if he knew just how desperate Sherlock was for him to leave so that he could finally have a hit, and then left without another word.

****

It was not until the morning of the 25th dawned that Sherlock realised that he had nothing that was really suitable for a funeral. He hadn’t spent any money on his clothes for years, and the few suits he had were all looking frayed around the edges and were much too large for him now that he had stopped wasting so much time and energy eating.

He pulled the best of them on and tried to concentrate on how much it would irritate Mycroft to see him in it rather than how disappointed Mummy would have been. He attempted to at least neaten his hair, but it had grown too long for that a month or so ago, when he had decided his money would be better spent on more cocaine rather than a haircut. Well, Mummy had always liked his curls so perhaps that, at least, was appropriate.

He was struck by a memory of her hand stroking through them as he bent over a microscope, explaining excitedly about the properties of blood cells. The microscope had been new – a birthday present from her. He could still remember the look on her face, so pleased at his excitement.

He pushed the memory away. This was not the day to wallow in such things – he would need to keep all of his emotional responses firmly locked away if he was to get through a funeral filled with his relatives.

The sky was grey when he reached the crematorium, although not so overcast as to justify Mycroft’s umbrella. Sherlock gave it a sneer, wondering if Mycroft knew how obvious his fear of the effect rain would have on his hair was. He kept it firmly in place with several expensive products, but it didn’t take more than a few drops of moisture to wash them away, and reinstate the frizz that had never deigned to fall into curls the way Sherlock’s hair did.

Mycroft gave Sherlock’s suit a similar sneer in return. “I suppose that is the most effort I could expect from a junkie,” he said cuttingly. “I should be grateful you’re not in some ghastly hoodie.”

“I’ll save that for your funeral,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft gave a humourless smile. “Do you really think you’ll outlive me, given your lifestyle? It seems far more likely that I’ll be attending your funeral within the next five years. If you wish, I can have you dressed in a hoodie for that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did Mycroft have to be so dramatic? “I’m perfectly in control,” he said. “I am not in any danger of making that kind of mistake.”

Mycroft let out a dry laugh. “My dear brother,” he said, “the only thing that is in charge of your life is the cocaine. One day, I am hoping you will see that.”

Oh, more drama. Sherlock ignored him in favour of looking around at the gathered mourners. Both Mummy’s sisters were here, despite not having spoken to her since the argument over grandfather’s Will, along with their cowed husbands. There were two or three other people that Sherlock vaguely recognised as relatives, although their exact link to him wasn’t worth remembering. There were a cluster of women who looked like the only ones actually feeling sadness – not family, then, no one from either side of Sherlock’s family ever risked showing that kind of weakness. The members of Mummy’s gardening club, probably. The lady who had cleaned the house every Thursday afternoon for fifteen years was sitting alone, looking awkwardly out of place, and Mycroft had bought his PA, which seemed a bit unnecessary. That was it.

_The remnants of a life,_ thought Sherlock. Was this really all the people who had known Mummy well enough to want to say goodbye?

The thought triggered the realisation that the only person who would be at his own funeral, if he were to have one in the near future, would be Mycroft, and probably his PA, as she seemed to get dragged everywhere. At least that would be cheap. Maybe they could just skip the whole ridiculous thing all together.

There was a cleared throat and Sherlock realised the vicar was waiting for him to find a seat so that she could begin. Mycroft had left an obvious gap next to himself in the front row, which Sherlock ignored in favour of sitting next to the cleaning woman.

The service itself was dull and trite. Sherlock blocked most of it out in favour of looking at the photo Mycroft had placed on the coffin of Mummy sitting in her favourite chair in the garden, smiling on a sunny day. He could remember the day it had been taken – the day Sherlock had come back from his first year of university, before he’d realised how insufferably dull the world was, and found that drugs were the only thing that could really make it all bearable. She looked happy and care-free in a way that had slowly eroded during his second year, and vanished by the time he dropped out.

Mycroft had visited that day and she’d served afternoon tea on the lawn. “Look at you both,” she’d said with overwhelming pride. “My two clever boys.”

The organ started playing and everyone stood, and Sherlock shook the memory away to join them. His hand was starting to tremble, he noted. He’d taken a hit before he’d left the bedsit but they were wearing off in less and less time. He’d need another one soon.

The coffin started to move slowly forwards, into the depths of the crematorium. He’d leave once it was gone – he had no interest in whatever excruciating gathering Mycroft had organised for afterwards.

It wasn’t that simple though. The moment he was up and heading for the door, ignoring the disapproving clucking of his aunts, Mycroft was up as well, chasing after him.

Sherlock nearly managed to get away, but Mycroft was quicker than he had expected – he was too used to him being too tubby to really run. Damn his diet.

Mycroft caught his arm. “Wait! Sherlock, for god’s sake. Couldn’t you show at least some courtesy?”

“To whom?” asked Sherlock. “Mummy’s gone, and there’s no-one else here I give a damn about.”

“No, you’ve made that very clear,” said Mycroft. He let out a long sigh. “Very well then, rush off if you must. I’m sure anyone with eyes will know what you’re so desperate for. There is just one tiny thing to discuss first, however-”

“Oh god, what now?!” snapped Sherlock. “This is it, Mycroft, our last joint family obligation. What could we possibly have to discuss? There’s absolutely no need for us to have anything to do with each other after this.”

“Yes, I know you feel that way,” said Mycroft. “However, I am sure it will not surprise you to find out that I don’t agree. We still have family obligations to each other, despite the absence of our parents. Or, really, because of that. I will always seek to aid you, in whatever way I can, Sherlock.”

Sherlock let out an aggravated noise at the idea that he would never be free of Mycroft’s meddling.

“However, that is not what I wished to discuss,” said Mycroft, ignoring it. “It is the matter of Mummy’s Will.”

Sherlock stared at him. “But that was all sorted when Father died,” he said. “All the money, and the house, went into a trust for her to live off, and then passed to you – the precious first born – on her death.”

That had been a rather bitter blow when Sherlock had discovered that. He had known that Father had not particularly liked him – especially after the incident with the second of his five mistresses – but he had not expected to be disinherited so spectacularly.

“That is true,” said Mycroft. “However, Mummy did have a small amount of money of her own, and she has left it all to you – in order to balance Father’s decision, I expect. It is not as much, of course, but it is rather more than you have right now.”

“How much?” demanded Sherlock.

“I believe, once all the arrangements are made, it will add up to just over ten thousand pounds,” said Mycroft.

Ten thousand pounds. That might not seem a lot to Mycroft – nor would it have to Sherlock, a few years ago – but he had spent enough time living without the support of his family to appreciate the amount. It would be enough to afford a slightly better place to live, or maybe to move to another city entirely, and so escape Mycroft’s influence. No, he couldn’t leave London, that wouldn’t work. A sudden image of just how much cocaine he could buy with that amount flashed into his head.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft sternly. “This is very important. This is the last gift Mummy will ever give you. If you intend to spend a single penny of it on drugs, I will contest her Will. I may not win, but after all the lawyers and legal costs are gone through, I shouldn’t imagine there would be a great deal left.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You’ve inherited the whole of Father’s estate, and yet you’d seek to take this away from me?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “Not at all. Sherlock, please. Think about what Mummy would have wanted you to do with the money. Use it to make something of yourself, if you can. At the very least, use it in a way that she would have approved of.”

“It’s mine, I shall use it as I see fit,” snapped Sherlock, and then turned and got away from the infernal busybody before he decided to start telling Sherlock how to run every detail of his life.

****

It was several months before the money arrived in Sherlock’s bank account, by which time he had got past his automatic desire to do whatever would piss Mycroft off most with it. Instead, he looked at the balance and thought about Mummy. She had deliberately arranged to leave him everything she had that was truly hers, and she hadn’t changed her mind despite her disapproval of his current living situation. She was a clever woman, she would have known that there was a high chance that at least some of it would be spent on drugs.

He remembered again the pride in her voice on that sunny afternoon. _My two clever boys._ There would be no more memories like that one now. It was with an intense sense of annoyance that he realised Mycroft was right. He did have to use this money in a way that she would have approved of, and so create one last memory of her for himself.

It took him several days to decide on the best way to do that but when it came to him, he realised it was perfect. And it would have the added benefit of irritating Mycroft, if he did it correctly.

He caught the tube to Oxford Circus, took the Argyll Street exit, and walked down the road to Liberty, which had always been Mummy’s favourite shop. When he emerged, several hours later, he had just enough money left over to take a taxi home.

****

Mycroft appeared in his bedsit the next morning, looking as if he were close to having an aneurysm.

“Could you really think of nothing better to do than splurge it all on clothes?”

Sherlock gave him a smile from behind half-shut eyes. He’d timed his hit rather well, so that he was still riding the buzz of it when Mycroft stalked through his door, but wasn’t so high that he couldn’t conduct a conversation.

“Clothes maketh the man, Mycroft,” he said. It had been one of Mummy’s favourite sayings. She’d always taken great care to be elegantly turned out and had taught them both the same. After all, it wasn’t as if the suit Mycroft was currently wearing hadn’t cost more than most people make in a month.

“Ten thousand pounds worth of clothes will not make you a different man, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You’ll still have rows of needle marks beneath them.”

Sherlock scowled, despite the glow of the drug. “And you’ll always have rolls of flab beneath yours,” he said. “And it’s none of your business what I spend my money on. Go away.”

Mycroft let out a long sigh. “I would have hoped you’d take some care not to blow it all at once, but I suppose I should have known that such care for the future is not in your nature.”

“I thought I didn’t have a future, beyond whatever funeral service you decide to organise for me,” Sherlock snapped back. He held up his hand to gesture at the row of suits he had hung up along the curtain rail, in the absence of a wardrobe. “At least you’ll have a choice of what to dress me in for it now.”

Mycroft took a short, sharp breath. “I suppose I should be relieved that you did not spend it on the means of hastening that event,” he said, and left without another word.

Sherlock watched him go with a smile of satisfaction, then hopped up off the sofa, reaching for his favourite of his new purchases – the one that had not only taken the largest chunk of his money, but which he had also chosen with the most care. If he was to be sentimental enough to admit that any one piece reminded him of Mummy the most, then this coat would be it. It was dark and elegant like she had been, expensive without being ostentatious about it and, when he swirled it around his shoulders and settled its heavy warmth around himself, it felt just as a hug from her had felt when he was still young enough to be engulfed in her arms, although it was possibly that was just the drugs making him fanciful.

He caught up his notes on the blood splatter system he had worked out and set off out of the bedsit. A coat like this, especially combined with the suit underneath, was bound to make at least one policeman stop and listen to him, and all he needed was a few minutes to get his point across. Anyone with even a hint of intelligence would see that it was in their best interests to consult with him after that. There had to be at least one intelligent police officer in Scotland Yard, all he had to do was find them.


End file.
